


Hail to the Chief

by liptonrm



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c., Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liptonrm/pseuds/liptonrm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghosts can show up in the nicest of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hail to the Chief

_February 2010_

“I don't like this.”

Dean drummed his fingers on the Impala's wheel and thought, for just a second, about pushing Sam out of the car. He was keyed up enough without Sam's constant bitching.

“Yeah, I got that the first twenty times you said it. But Bobby says the guy's legit, says he knows him from way back, so we get in there, do what we do, and then get the hell out again.” _Before they throw us in federal pound-us-up-the-ass prison_ , Dean finished in his head. From the look on Sam's face he was having the exact same thought.

They pulled up to the security checkpoint, the car full of a thick, choking silence. Dean handed their ID's to the soldier on duty, their _real_ ID's because Bobby had told him that if he was stupid enough to try and fake his way in he deserved what he got. Time ticked by while the guard studied their pictures, every second of which Dean expected sirens to sound, guns to be pointed, and for them to be royally and irrevocably screwed. 

Dean jerked back from the hand that reached through his open window. It took him a second to see the plastic cards and dangling lanyards hanging in front of him. He grimaced and grabbed them, he wasn't going to be embarrassed for having reflexes like a cat.

“There you go, Mr. Winchester,” the guard said in a bored tone that hinted that he'd seen it all before and that some punkass ghost hunter in a classic car wasn't something to get worked up about. “Welcome to the White House.”

~~~

“Holy shit,” Sam muttered. “Holy shit.” He couldn't help it, his brain was on repeat. He'd never thought that they'd make it this far but it was real, they were in the driveway of the _White House_. Presidents, ambassadors, monarchs had stood right where he was standing. This was- “Holy shit.”

Dean smirked at him, the effect a little muted by the wide-eyed way he kept glancing over his shoulder at the building that towered over them. “And you say I never take you anywhere classy.”

Sam could only nod, still gobstruck. He wiped his hands down his pants and suddenly wished he'd put on something a lot nicer when they'd left the motel that morning. He was going into the White House and he looked like a bum. He grimaced and rubbed at a spot on his knee. He really hoped he hadn't been stupid enough to wear the ectoplasm stained jeans.

“You look perfect, Princess,” Dean said from behind the already popped trunk. “Now come on, we're on a tight time frame.”

Sam came around the back of the car in enough time to catch Dean slipping one of the sawed-offs into the duffel bag. Oh hell no. “We are not taking _guns_ into the White House, Dean.”

“Yeah, no, we're not going in there like a couple of jackasses. Have a little pride in your job, dude.”

“Dean, they will shoot us in the face if we try to take those in there. I promise you.”

Dean shot him his pissiest, most stubborn look but Sam wasn't having any of it. There was stupid and there was incredibly, outrageously, incompetently stupid. He wasn't going to get shot just because Dean was a stubborn bastard.

“Excuse me.” Sam's head whipped around at the interruption. A woman in an impeccably pressed suit stood behind them, smartphone in hand. “Sam and Dean Winchester?” she asked, her face smooth and unruffled.

Sam colored, he suddenly felt like a two year-old with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “Uh, yes. I mean, I'm Sam and he's Dean. Hi.” He stretched his hand out, still with it enough to know the polite thing to do.

“Jean Wellan,” she replied with a firm handshake. “I'll be your escort today.” She glanced at the duffel bag. “You'll have to leave all munitions and weapons in your car. Security reasons, I'm sure you'll understand.”

“Of course we do,” Sam assured her. He glared back at a Dean on the verge of mutiny. “Don't we?”

“Fine,” Dean bit out and threw the bag back into the trunk. He pitched one of their old portable rock salt bags at Sam's head. Sam snatched it before it hit him square in the face and tucked it into one of his jacket's inner pockets.

“Please follow me.” Jean turned and lead them into the White House.

~~~

“You've been briefed on our little situation?”

“You mean how something's got you all so spooked that you had to call us in to gank its ass?” Dean asked, smirk firmly in place.

“Something like that,” their babysitter replied, face and voice calm. First the guns, now his best asshole couldn't get a rise out of her. Chick was some kind of cylon. “Staff completed some routine maintenance in the Residence four weeks ago, ever since which there have been complaints of flickering lights, moving objects, and the occasional cold spot. We thought it would be best to handle it before it advanced much further.”

She picked a folder up off of a table as they passed and handed it to Sam. “That contains our research into the matter. We've narrowed the culprit down to a few possibilities.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at him and handed over a sheet of paper. Dean read as they walked. Warren G. Harding's hair brush? Lucy Hayes's brooch? Andrew Johnson's chamberpot? “And I bet their shit doesn't even stink.”

“I have it on good authority that a president's excrement smells like roses.” Jean held an elevator door open. “This way gentleman, the First Family returns to the Residence in a few hours.”

It wasn't until the elevator doors closed that Dean realized she'd actually made a joke.

~~~

Apparently, the Lincoln Bedroom wasn't included on their makeshift tour of the White House's private rooms. Sam couldn't help the spike of disappointment that shot through him when he heard that.

Disappointment that, of course, showed up on his big, betrayer of a face. Jean almost smiled at him as she explained. “The disturbances have been centered on the Third Floor so we won't have a chance to peruse the staterooms on the Second.”

“Oh, okay.” Sam tried not to look too dejected. But it was the _Lincoln Bedroom_. Of course he wanted to see it, anyone would want to.

Dean clapped him on the back as they exited the elevator. “You think we could swing by after we're done? Sam's got a huge hard-on for Lincoln, we've had to stop at every Lincoln-themed historic site in the Lower 48. We've probably visited that log cabin birthplace five times, at least.”

“Unfortunately, the suite is currently occupied. But it's not as if it's the actual bedroom that Lincoln slept in. The place has been entirely gutted and remodeled since the 1860's.”

Dean shrugged at Sam, his _I tried my best, dude_ because that was Dean _helping_ , and whipped his old EMF reader out. He ambled a few steps a head, sweeping the hallway and humming _Hail to the Chief_ under his breath.

Jean fell back to walk beside him. “However, we may run into Lincoln's ghost during our hunt.”

Sam felt his eyes go wide. “Really?” Then a horrible thought hit him. “We're not hunting Lincoln, are we?”

“Don't worry. If Mr. Lincoln was behind the incidences we would have been able to handle it ourselves. For this mystery we needed someone with a professional's instincts.”

Jean walked forward, calling to Dean to not put unnecessary holes in the wall. Sam smiled and pulled out his own EMF reader. Professional, he liked the sound of that.

~~~

Dean was starting to get bored. They'd been up and down the hallway three times already and not a ping, not a chill, not a flicker, nothing. He could tell that Sam was still excited by the decorations, he kept on pulling Jean aside and geeking out over this painting or that quill pen that some old guy had touched a billionty years ago. Dean got it, he'd been pretty awed by the whole White House thing, but at the end of the day it was just a house and they still had a job to do.

He rolled his shoulder and blocked out chatter about servants' quarters and attics and blah blah blah. Dean felt like the only person in the building who wasn't a card carrying member of the nerd squad. 

A chill ran up Dean's back sending the hairs on his arms straight up. He stopped and looked around, eyes narrowed. There was something right here, something important. His eyes caught on a small painting on the near wall. The frame wasn't as ornate as some of the others he'd seen in passing but it otherwise seemed like all the rest, paint on canvas with lots of trees and some water. He leaned closer and huh, what was that in the corner—

Both EMF readers squealed and the lights went out. Dean felt a freezing hand wrap around his throat and he was pitched backwards. He landed with a crash into a table at least ten feet away.

“Sam!” Dean shouted, but Sam was already there rock salt bag in hand. He pitched a handful at the spectre materializing to Dean's left but it didn't make a dent. Salt scattered as the ghost picked Sam up and threw him into the opposite wall. Dean groaned and started to pull himself upright but the wind picked up, a mini-cyclone strong enough to pitch Dean even farther away from his brother.

_Fuckity FUCK! This is why you never leave the motherfucking guns in the motherfucking car!_

Pain shot through Dean's side as he tried to pull himself back upright. He panted, great, now that ghost asshole had cracked his ribs.

A cold, gray figure appeared, looming over him. It was some old dude, of course it was, dressed in some kind of old time-y clothes. Getting kicked around was bad enough but having his ass whipped by the Ghost of Christmas Past was just plain humiliating.

Out of nowhere a crowbar whipped through the ghost, ripping the figure into smoke. But the guy on the other end wasn't Sam, it was some guy with white hair and a manic gleam in his eye.

“Light it up!” they guy yelled and there was a flash of flame from a lighter and Sam was lighting up that whole, damn, ugly ass painting.

A cold scream echoed through the hallway on a peal of frozen wind and that was it. It was over.

“Damn Republicans,” the guy muttered. “Never know when to shut up.” He reached a hand down to Dean. “Come on, son, up and at 'em.”

He pulled Dean to his feet in time for Sam to come over and grab Dean's other shoulder, steadying him. “Oh my god, thank you.” Sam said with a strange fanboyish zeal. Dean narrowed his eyes at the old dude and, yeah, maybe there was something familiar about him. It'd come to him.

“You okay over there, Jeannie?” The guy boomed, his voice extra-loud in the absence of wailing spooks. 

“I'm fine, Mr. Vice President,” Jean assured him, voice cool and collected, as she came up beside them. Damn, even her hair was still all in place.

Dean's brain finally kicked in and “Holy shit.”

They guy laughed. “You're about half right, at least according to the damn pundits.” He extended his hand. “But I generally go by Joe Biden.”

~~~

Dean and Sam didn't protest when the Vice President suggested they all go get a big, stiff drink. Even Jean tagged along and Sam was amazed to see her unbutton her suit jacket and sit back in the booth. The bar was dimly-lit and comfortable, not nearly as trashy as most of the places the Winchesters frequented but not swank enough to be intimidating.

It was surprisingly unsurprising that Dean and the Vice President got along like two peas in a pod. They traded war stories back and forth, Biden describing all of the unique ways he'd used his trusty crowbar to, in his words, “shove legislation down the Senate's throat,” and Dean regaling them with exaggerated ghost hunts. It was like they were the same, inappropriate person. Sam didn't know whether to be amused or appalled.

A few drinks in and even Jean had started laughing at Biden's story about how he'd met Bobby Singer and together they'd put a ghost train to rest. She leaned her head against Sam's shoulder, hair falling in little curls across her forehead. Sam ignored the way Dean waggled his eyebrows in favor of smiling down into her big, brown eyes. She spoke about Warren G. Harding, his painting, and the way he'd died, in the middle of his term, on the other side of the country. Her voice was soft and musical and Sam felt wrapped up in the soothing sound.

They'd done good work today.


End file.
